Once, in a tiny village in India, there was a young boy who loved to paint. He lived with his grandfather, who taught him to paint with his fingers, to make paints from marigolds and brushes made from jasmine flowers. Sometimes, the village children would watch them painting together, and the boy's grandfather would invite them to join in. They didn't have much, but they had each other. After his grandfather dies, the boy notices a little box wrapped in string with a note that read: "From Dadaji, with love," with his grandfather's best paintbrush tucked away inside. But he feels he will never want to paint again. Will the boy overcome his grief and find joy in painting and his dadaji's memory again?